Early in the morning, Sandrone washed down the last bite of black bread—hard enough to be used as a weapon—with cold water.
There were faint dark circles under her eyes, but her blue pupils were Burning with a near-paranoid intensity.
The draft paper spread on the table was covered in exploded views of the lock structure—she had stayed up half the night, relying on memory and professional knowledge to rerun the three sets of linked gears and pressure-fitted tenons that puzzled her the most, using scrap brass and classroom remnants to crudely but precisely create a palm-sized “Problem Model” with only the core functions.
She carefully tucked the model into her bag, shoved the troublesome real chest into the deepest part under her bed, covered it with old clothes, and then took a deep breath before heading toward the university campus, which was filled with soot and steam.
The campus was no friendlier than the streets.
The occasional glances cast her way were filled with scrutiny, curiosity, or undisguised contempt—a poor female international student from a closed country.
Sandrone habitually lifted her chin, treating the whispers and gazes as nothing more than wind, and walked straight toward the gray brick building of the College of Applied Mechanics.
“Is Professor Hammel free right now?”
She knocked on the assistant’s door, keeping her voice deliberately steady.
The assistant glanced at her, not very warmly.
“The professor is in.
You had better have a truly important question, Miss Sandrone, his mood seems average this morning.”
“It is about the xxxxxxx problem,”
Sandrone fluently rattled off a string of terms that sounded profound enough but were actually a combination she had concocted the night before.
“I have encountered some problems.”
She held up the crude model wrapped in cloth.
The assistant raised an eyebrow, evidently intimidated by the string of terms, and reluctantly went inside to report.
A moment later, Sandrone was allowed to enter the spacious office piled high with blueprints.
Professor Hammel was a middle-aged man with severe baldness and sharp eyes, his lips always pursed into a harsh, straight line.
He was puffing on a briar pipe, surrounded by smoke.
“It is you again, Sandrone.”
His voice was hoarse.
“I hope you are not wasting my time with another basic problem again; I still have vivid memories of your last innovative gear set falling apart.”
Sandrone felt her cheeks heat up, but she steadied herself.
“It is not a basic problem, Professor.”
She stepped forward, placed the cloth bundle in a gap among the blueprints, and opened it, revealing the crude but structurally clear little brass model.
“I tried to design a highly secure micro-composite lock, referring to some…
vague records in ancient books.
But when simulating it, it was never achievable; it would produce unpredictable deflection between the second and third positions.”
She pointed to the key parts on the model, her speech slightly fast but clear.
Professor Hammel narrowed his eyes, put down his pipe, and leaned over to observe carefully.
In his eyes, which always revealed impatience, a professional sharpness gradually emerged.
He took out a magnifying glass, carefully examined the gear engagement, and then used his finger to gently flick the small lever Sandrone had preset to represent external input.
“Hmph,”
He snorted.
“‘Ancient book records’?
The involute modification of this gear, and this reset structure of the elastic tenon, do not look like old antiques at all; they look more like…
the style of certain private custom workshops that do not like to see the light.”
He gave Sandrone a meaningful look.
Sandrone’s heart tightened, but she tried hard to maintain an expression of seeking knowledge.
“Is, is that so?
I just saw the variation in an old mechanical atlas…”
“Old atlas?”
The professor scoffed, but did not press for the source, instead becoming attracted to the structure itself.
“Your problem lies in…”
He spoke on and on, completely immersed in the technical problem.
Sandrone quickly took out her notebook and recorded it rapidly, her heart beating like a drum.
Half because the professor had indeed provided a possible key solution, and half because she was worried he would see more clues.
About twenty minutes later, the professor seemed to have finished, leaned back into his chair, and picked up his pipe.
“…That is about it.
Calculate and test the rest yourself.
The model is decent, although the craftsmanship is as crude as a goblin’s handiwork.”
He waved his hand, a typical Hammel-style ending—giving guidance without forgetting to disparage.
“Thank you very much, Professor!”
Sandrone bowed sincerely and carefully wrapped up the model.
“Sandrone,”
As she turned to leave, the professor suddenly spoke again, his voice flat.
“Curiosity is an engineer’s engine, but you must choose the right fuel.
Some blueprints…
are stained with things they shouldn’t be, and they will burn your hands.”
He did not look at her, only staring at the smoke from his pipe.
Sandrone’s back stiffened, and she replied in a low voice, “I understand, Professor,” before walking quickly out of the office.
Only after walking out of the building and being stimulated by the cold air did she let out a long sigh.
The mentor must have noticed something, but he seemed…
not to have delved into it, even implicitly reminding her.
“There is still half…”
She touched the model in her bag, recalling the sketch the professor had drawn.
She had not yet dared to rerun the most core part of the lock.
Cannot be rushed; take it one step at a time.
Leaving the campus, the sky was gradually darkening.
To save on fare, she still chose to walk through some quieter neighborhoods.
When passing a narrow alley, she glanced into it unconsciously, and her footsteps paused slightly.
Deep in the alley, the shadows seemed thicker than usual, as if they were slowly wriggling with life.
She seemed to see a slight, unnatural reflection at the edge of the shadows, which flashed and vanished.
At the same time, a strange smell seemed to drift past her nose.
Must be an illusion?
Too tired.
She shook her head and quickened her pace.
An inexplicable palpitation urged her to almost jog, and only when she returned to the door of her narrow rented room did she feel the subtle, prickly discomfort on her back gradually dissipate.
She closed the door and locked it.
She leaned against the door to steady her breathing, her gaze involuntarily cast toward the space under the bed.
Lighting the kerosene lamp, she took out the ornate chest again and placed it on the table.
According to the professor’s hints and sketches, she found the smallest tools, carefully tried to insert a specially made L-shaped probe through a tiny inspection hole at the position she had conceived in her mind, and attempted to apply a resistance adjustment.
“Click.”
A faint yet incredibly clear sound of a spring mechanism snapping came from inside the chest.
Then, the outermost of the three brass dials on the surface of the chest, engraved with strange symbols, suddenly loosened and could rotate with freedom!
Sandrone’s heart skipped a beat, and then wild joy surged up.
Success!
The professor’s method was correct!
But the joy quickly cooled.
She tried to rotate the outermost copper ring, but there was no further reaction.
The other two dials and those levers remained locked.
This was only the first lock.
A more core puzzle—the remaining two dials, and the meanings represented by those strange symbols—was still waiting for her.
She gently stroked the cold lid of the chest and whispered to herself, as if cheering herself on, or perhaps a sigh of resignation: “Alright…
the Marionette’s stage has been set; next, it is time to figure out how to turn the Clockwork mechanism.”
This was a proverb from her hometown about complex machinery, and using it here now actually made her feel a trace of inexplicable chill.